“You don’t have to do that,” her dad calls out. “I’ll be the horse trainer.”
“No, the horse trainer is a girl,” she says, looking at me pleadingly.
I’m not very susceptible to cuteness; this is something else. I guess it’s her…moxie? Spunk?
I take off my sunglasses, slip them into my tote bag, and haul myself up, letting my feet hit the hot concrete. “What are the tricks?”
“I’m a swimming horse,” she says, as I lower myself into the cold water. “I’ll swim around you and you tell me what to do.”
The thought of generating swimming horse commands out of thin air is daunting, but it turns out that she does whatever she wants no matter what I say. It’s obvious who’s in charge here, and it’s not the horse trainer.
“Tell me to do a flip,” she shouts. Her dad watches her from the other end of the pool.
“Do a flip!” I yell, waving my hand around in what I assume is a flip motion.
She dives under, feet splashing wildly as she tries to complete an aquatic somersault.
The freezing cold pool water splashes my face. “Ahhh!” I yell, as her head breaks the surface. “I’ve been hit by a rogue water horse.”
“I’m not a water horse, I’m ahorsethat swims!”
I’m properly chastened. “My mistake. I thought I saw fins.”
“Water horses don’thavefins,” she says, pushing her goggles up on her head. “What are you?”
11/10 question, kid. I wish I knew. “I thought I was the horse trainer.”
“It’s your turn to pick an animal so I can train you.” It all sounds so obvious when she says it. “What are you?”
“Hmmm. Guess.” Classic adult copout.
Her eyes narrow. “Orangutan.”
Shit.I can’t remember exactly what orangutans sound like, but I’m sure it’s a noise that would be humiliating to attempt in public. I glance toward her dad, wondering if he’ll volunteer in my place.
He does not. He’s just looking at the two of us, eyebrowsslightly raised.
“Incorrect,” I say. “I’m a water orangutan.”
Her nose scrunches. “No you’re not!”
“And as a water orangutan, I can only perform underwater.”
“Nuh-uh.Orangutans don’t like swimming.”
Ignoring this insight, I sink below the surface of the water, doing my best to swim in a circle around her. In general, I avoid the pool when it’s full of little kids—I’m too paranoid about the amount of pee. But this seems like a clever way to play along with minimal embarrassment.
On the other hand, I miscalculated how challenging it is to swim in circles with my eyes closed. Apparently, my aquatic spatial perception sucks. I can feel how dangerously close I am to brushing other bodies with my fingertips.
I need to come up for air. Now.
As I give one strong kick to propel myself out of the water, my hand hits smooth skin that gives just a little bit. My mouth opens to gasp or yell or something as all my pool fears come true at once.
I break the surface coughing up pool water, arms flailing, slapping at a person in front of me who I can’t see because of the chlorine stinging my eyes and my nearsightedness.
A man’s voice asks if I’m okay. After blinking roughly thirty times to focus my vision, I see that the stranger I’ve been accidentally molesting is—of course, obviously, was there ever any doubt?—the girl’s dad.
“I told you,” she says from somewhere behind me. “Orangutans don’t like swimming.”
